PS 

3535 

R7136r 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON 


THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON 

BY 
JAMES  N.  ROSENBERG 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

1916 


COPYE.IGHT  igi6  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN  AMERICA 


TO  THAT  MOST  DISCRIMINATING  OF  PUBLISHERS, 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


1511833 


ACT  I 


THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON 


ACT  I 

SCENE  : —  A  living  room.  It  is  a  wet  November  eve 
ning.  John  and  Jane  liave  just  finished  dinner.  This 
is  the  room  which  they  have  inhabited  for  the  eight  years 
of  their  married  life.  It  is  a  place  which  has  grown 
with  them.  It  was  not  arranged  at  one  fell  swoop. 
It  is  no  choice  product  of  the  skilled  decorator's  hand, 

—  a    bandy-legged    Chippendale    turns    shudderingly 
from  its  neighbor,  a  jovial,  fat  and  plebeian  mission 
chair.     And  yet,  the  room,  over-crowded  with  an  ill- 
assorted  medley  of  trash,  has  associations  and  atmos 
phere.     It  has  been  acquainted  with  passion,  ecstasy, 
anguish;  and  thence  those  discordant  descending  scales, 

—  annoyance,  irritation,  contempt.     Now,  alas,  it  has 
settled  down.     One  fears  it  is  not  a  stranger  to  that 
bitterest  of  tragedies, —  boredom. 

The  pictures  are  a  large  photogravure  of  Corot's 
"  Vitte  D'Avray  "  a  Childe  Hassam,  a  colored  print  of 
Rossetti's  "  LiLlith,"  a  mezzotint  of  Lord  Mansfield,  and, 

—  almost  dominating  the  room, —  a  very  large  post- 
impressionist  canvas, —  a  brilliant  piece  of  color. 

As  for  the  arrangement  of  the  room,  there  is  a 
door  at  the  back,  standing  open.  Beyond,  one  sees  a 
corridor  and  stairway.  At  the  right  is  a  fireplace.  A 
fire  is  burning,  but  listlessly.  Between  the  fireplace  and 
the  door  at  the  back  is  a  window  looking  out  upon  the 
street.  The  shade  is  part  way  up.  One  gets  a  glimpse 

3 


4  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

of  -wet  pavements  outdoors.  In  front  of  the  fireplace 
is  a  large,  well-worn  couch.  Back  of  the  couch  is  a 
table  strewn  with  novels,  magazines  and  newspapers. 
There  are  bookcases  against  the  walls  in  which  stand  a 
miscellany  of  books,  including  a  fair-sized  library  of 
law  books.  TJiere  is  a  door  to  the  left. 

John  sits  on  a  foot-stool  before  the  fire.  He  is  a 
smallish  man  in  the  middle  thirties.  He  is  ratlier  bald; 
he  wears  horn-rimmed  spectacles  which  give  him  an  owl 
ish  look.  His  face  is  cheerful,  agreeable,  somewhat 
whimsical.  He  looks  tired,  and  he  is  tired.  He  has 
been  presiding  in  court  all  day,  conducting  the  trial  of  a 
difficult  case.  He  wears  an  old  smoking  jacket,  gay  in 
pattern, —  a  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors, —  soiled, 
worn  and  extraordinarily  unbecoming.  Old  fiowered 
carpet  slippers  stand  on  the  hearth.  John  is  content 
edly  toasting  his  feet.  He  smokes  an  old  pipe.  He  is 
digesting  his  dinner.  Perhaps  he  is  planning  tomor 
row's  judicial  duties.  Perhaps  he  is  reflecting  on  other 
matters,  but  only  sketchUy,  for  his  feet  appear  to  en 
gross  most  of  his  attention. 

Jane  sits  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  at  a  desk,  her 
back  to  John,  her  profile  to  the  audience.  She  is  charm 
ingly  gowned  in  a  last  year's  evening  gown  (which  is 
still  good  enough  for  evenings  at  home).  She  is  exam 
ining  photographs,  letters,  papers  of  various  sorts,  tear 
ing  them  into  small  bits,  and  throwing  them  into  a  waste 
basket. 

They  seem  unconscious  of  each  other's  presence. 
Thus  almost  every  night  for  eight  years  he  has  silently 
smoked  his  after  dinner  pipe.  But  let  it  not  be  sup 
posed  that  they  are  really  unconscious  of  each  other. 
As  for  John,  he  not  only  knows  she  is  there  and  knows 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  5 

what  she  is  doing,  but  sees  into  the  depths  of  her  mind. 
Still,  he  does  not  talk.  Silence  like  this,  —  a  "wholly  nor 
mal  relationship  between  a  man  and  his  wife,  —  is  to  her, 
as  to  so  many  women,  an  incomprehensible  language. 
Once  or  twice  he  steals  a  look  at  her.  All  this  dumb 
show  occupies  enough  minutes  to  indicate  that  the  cur 
tain  has  not  risen  on  the  beginning  of  their  lives.  The 
current  has  been  flowing  for  a  good  many  years  and  it  is 
sluggish.  Once  or  twice  she,  too,  steals  a  glance  at  him, 
but  their  eyes  do  not  meet.  By  degrees  it  appears  that 
perhaps  the  fire  smouldering  on  the  hearth  is  not  the 
only  flame  in  the  room.  And  now  John's  absorption 
in  his  feet  increases.  He  takes  off  his  socks.  Sktt- 
fully,  as  if  of  long  practice,  he  erects  a  pyramid  of 
tongs,  poker  and  shovel;  he  hangs  his  socks  upon  the 
apex.  Bang.  The  pyramid  collapses  with  a  crash. 

JANE  (startled  from  her  absorption) 

John! 
JOHN  (without  looking  at  her) 

Hullo  ! 


What  was  that? 
JOHN  (beginning  to  rebuild  the  pyramid) 

Socks. 
JANE 

Fascinating  subject. 
JOHN 

You  asked  a  question;  I  answered.     Drying  socks  is 

a  tiresome  business,  but  it's  a  perfectly  moral  occu 

pation. 
JANE 

But  aren't  tiresome  things  wicked? 


6  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

JOHN 

Idols  have  feet;  ergo,  socks;  feet  of  clay;  clay  is 
moist;  (all  this  time  his  back  is  turned  to  her;  he  is 
examining  the  socks)  ergo,  damp  socks.  Ha!  (He 
lifts  one  sock  into  the  air)  Dry  as  a  bone.  (He 
finds  a  hole  m  the  sock;  puts  his  finger  through  it) 
Ha!  Ha!  behold! 

JANE 

You  didn't  answer  what  I  was  saying  at  dinner. 

JOHN 

Twice  one  are  two, —  never  one;  we  think  so  for  a 
little  while ;  but  we  find  out. 

JANE 

So  you  won't  try  to  — 

JOHN 

Soar  like  the  lark?  I'm  glad  to  creep;  man  is  a 
mole.  (He  puts  on  his  dry  sock) 

JANE 

And  the  things  I  care  for — ? 

JOHN 

Yesterday's  or  tomorrow's?  Freud,  Nietzsche;  eu 
genics  ;  suffrage ;  prostitution ;  Strindberg ;  sanita 
tion  ;  Dalcroze ;  vers  libre ;  amour  libre ;  the  new  thea 
tre  ;  the  old  Nick ;  vegetarianism ;  Christian  Science ; 
post-impressions  (he  bows  to  the  picture  on  the 
wall)  How  dull  they  make  my  law  suits.  (He  rises 
and  hops  toward  her  on  his  stockinged  foot  and 
speaks  whimsically)  Life's  greatest  litigation ;  ro 
mance  against  roast-beef;  souls  against  socks;  mys 
tery  against  mutton.  How  I  could  try  that  case 
for  the  plaintiff.  "  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye 
may."  Three  Herrick  four  fifty-six.  And  Shelley 
in  his  learned  commentary  declares,  second  edition, 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  7 

page  ten,  "  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  and  a  spirit 
in  my  feet."  (He  wiggles  his  bare  toes)  Youth, 
the  plaintiff,  radiant,  dazzling,  palpitating!  I  used 
to  palpitate. 

JANE 

Did  you  ever? 

JOHN 

One  forgets.     And  the  defendant  — 

JANE 

Shall  I  describe  him? 

JOHN 

How  well  I  fill  the  part!  Useful  but  uninspiring, 
dependable  but  dyspeptic,  prosperous  but  prosaic. 
It's  the  tragedy  of  life.  The  defendant  always  wins. 

JANE 
Always  ? 

JOHN 

There  is  no  exception.  The  rosebud  fades ;  the  cat 
erpillar  breakfasts  on  the  petals.  The  end  is  always 
the  same.  The  bad  prevails. 

JANE 

Badness  ? 

JOHN 

Stupidity,  age,  ugliness,  baldness,  a  paunch,  rheu 
matism,  boredom ;  —  all  the  bad  things.  Only  the 
young  die  good.  (He  sniff s)  My  sock!  It's  burn 
ing.  (He  hops  rapidly  to  the  fire  to  rescue  it,  but  in 
doing  so  stubs  his  toe)  Ouch!  (And  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  floor  he  stops  to  nurse  it)  My  toe;  I 
believe  I  broke  it. 

JANE  (without  offering  to  rise) 

Phew,  what  a  smell!      (He  rescues  the  sock) 

JOHN  (reproachfully) 


8  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

The  burning  brand!     And  where  were  you  while  I 

lay  wounded? 
JANE  (calmly) 

You'll  get  over  it.     You  get  over  everything. 
JOHN  (philosophically  —  meantime  putting  on  his  socks 

and  slippers)     One  bows  to  life's  decrees. 
JANE 

And  that's  your  only  answer  to  all  I  said? 
JOHN 

It's  not  my  answer. 
JANE 

Whose  then? 
JOHN 

Life's. 

JANE 

I  won't  accept  it. 

JOHN 

Boiled  mutton,  Jane.  Suppose  you'd  eaten  nothing 
else  for  eight  years.  (He  calculates  rapidly  on  his 
fingers)  Good  God!  Ten  thousand  meals.  Be 
hold!  (He  goes  toward  her,  the  slippers  flopping 
with  each  step)  The  boiled  mutton.  (He  bows,  in 
dicating  himself)  One  learns  the  other's  tricks  — 
the  whole  bagful;  the  parlor  tricks,  the  dining  room 
tricks  — 

JANE 

Company  tricks,  Judge  tricks,  even  the  bed  room  — 

JOHN  (raising  his  hand  deprecatmgly) 

Ssh!  Jane.  ...  In  fifteen  minutes  I'm  due  at  the 
asylum  meeting.  What  a  bully  little  talk  we've  had. 
But  if  I  run  on  like  this,  I'll  miss  my  forty  winks,  and 
I've  been  holding  court  all  day.  (He  goes  to  the 
couch,  lies  down,  pulls  a  cover  over  himself,  adjusts 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  9 

the  pillows  and  settles  down  with  a  sigh  of  vast  con 
tentment  ) 

JANE 

As  for  me,  I  refuse  to  be  mutton. 

JOHN 

If  only  one  could.  Still,  what  delicious  mutton  you 
are, —  done  to  a  turn ;  crisp,  wonderfully  seasoned, 
so  many  adorable  little  capers,  and  so  attractively 
served  up.  Anyone  else  would  swear  you  are 
spring  lamb. 

JANE 

But  mutton  for  you. 

JOHN 

That's  the  devil  of  it.  One  little  kiss?  (She  does 
not  move  .  .  .  resignedly)  Very  well.  .  .  .  It's  all 
the  same. 

JANE 

I'm  afraid  so. 

JOHN  (lifting  himself  on  his  elbows  and  exclaiming  as  if 
it  were  the  supreme  thing  m  life)  By  Jove !  What 
do  you  think  ?  The  new  pills.  Work  like  a  charm ! 
Fried  onions  for  lunch.  Fit  as  a  fiddle. 

JANE 

How  I  envy  you. 

JOHN 

Envy  me? 

JANE 

You,  at  least,  have  a  real  interest  in  life. 
JOHN 

When  all  else  fails,  there  is  always  the  stomach. 
Wake  me.  Just  ten  minutes.  (He  lies  down  again. 
Instantly  almost,  it  appears,  he  falls  asleep.  He 
breathes  deeply  and  snores  with  loud  and  peaceful 


10  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

regularity.     The  telephone  rings.     She  takes  up  the 

receiver) 
JANE  (at  the  telephone) 

Hello.     You?     (A   long  pause)   .  .  .  Almost?  .  .  . 

I  —  I  think  so.  Not  this  evening.  .  .  .  No  —  to 
morrow.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  suppose  I  can't  slam  the  door  in 

your  face. 

[Presently  John  awakes. 
JOHN  (sleepily  and  with  a  mighty  yawn) 

Didn't  I  hear  the  'phone? 
JANE 

Augustin. 
JOHN 

Coming  over? 
JANE 

Yes. 

JOHN 

Good!  .  .  .  Dear  little  Augustin.  (A  deep  bow  to 
the  post-impressionist  picture) 

JANE 

Yet  you  used  to  like  him. 

JOHN 

Doesn't  wear  —  Mush  —  Mush. 

JANE 

The  critics  ? 

JOHN 

I'm  saying  nothing  against  the  picture,  my  dear. 
It's  the  man  I'm  talking  about.  Come  up  while  I 
dress?  (He  pauses  for  a  reply,  but  she  does  not  an 
swer.  He  goes  out  left,  leaving  the  smoking  jacket 
and  slippers  on  the  couch.  Jane  stands  before  the 
fire  reflecting;  she  sighs;  then,  with  the  habit  of  her 
sex  at  such  moments,  re-arranges  her  hair  a  little, 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  11 

puts  out  some  of  the  lights,  and  lays  a  fresh  log  on 
the  fire.  John  returns,  carrying  his  other  clothes) 
Thought  I'd  dress  in  here.  Haven't  quite  finished 
our  bully  little  talk.  (He  throws  his  clothes  on  a 
chair  behind  the  library  table.  He  begins  to  dress; 
during  his  next  speech  he  is  dressing  himself;  a  good 
deal  of  the  time  he  is  hidden  behind  the  table)  It's 
no  go,  Jane.  .  .  .  I'm  just  a  good  old  beast  in  har 
ness.  .  .  .  Can't  fly.  .  .  .  There  goes  a  shoe  lace. 
.  .  .  I've  tried.  .  .  .  You  may  not  think  so.  .  .  I 
have,  just  the  same.  .  .  .  No  one  in  the  world  like 
you.  .  .  .  Too  bad  you're  so  fond  of  the  upper  air. 
(His  dressing  proceeds;  he  has  changed  his  trousers 
and  puts  on  a  fresh  cottar  and  a  black  tie)  Did 
you  get  my  check?  Added  an  extra  hundred;  gaso 
lene's  so  high.  (He  takes  papers  and  bills  from 
the  discarded  trousers  pockets)  Gracious,  Jennie. 
Nearly  forgot.  (He  offers  her  an  envelope) 
Guess. 

JANE 

You  know  I  hate  guessing. 

JOHN  (impressively) 

It's  something  I  got  at  Cobb's.  (But  Jane  is  unre 
lenting)  You  won't  guess?  Perhaps  you'll  look  at 
it.  It's  the  two  cent  Hawaiian  Missionary. 

JANE  (breathless  —  the  words  slipping  out  before  she 
knows  it)     The  two! 

JOHN 

Look  and  see.  (He  takes  the  stamp  from  the  enve 
lope,  picks  up  a  magnifying  glass  from  the  table  and 
brings  them  both  to  her) 

JANE  (as  if  to  humor  him,  but  really  dying  to  see  it) 
I  suppose  you  won't  be  satisfied  till  I  look  at  it  (and 


12  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

she  eagerly  examines  it  through  the  magnifying  glass, 
turning  it  over  and  over) 

JOHN  (proudly) 
Beauty,  isn't  it? 

JANE 

But  what  a  dreadful  extravagance. 

JOHN 

Don't  forget  how  that  set's  advancing.  It's  a  first- 
class  investment. 

JANE 

And  so,  of  course,  it  was  really  an  economy  to  buy  it. 

JOHN 

Well,  wasn't  it?     Besides,  it's  your  set. 

JANE 

What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ? 

JOHN 

Well,  you  see,  if  we  ever  should  fall  out,  you  know 
(she  steals  a  quick  look  at  him) — Oh,  well,  that 
little  set  might  come  in  handy  for  you.  (He  meets 
her  eyes  and  changes  the  subject  instantly)  And 
now  for  the  deaf,  the  dumb  and  the  blind.  ( And  with 
a  final  lurch  here  and  a  jerk  there,  he  has  settled  him 
self  into  his  clothes) 

[Jane  has  the  stamp  in  the  palm  of  her  hand;  she 
speaks  as  if  to  it,  with  quiet  irony. 

JANE 

The  deaf,  the  dumb  and  the  blind. 

[John  has  gathered  his  discarded  clothes  and  reached 

the  door;  he  turns  suddenly. 

JOHN 

I,  their  guardian ;  I,  blind  as  a  bat,  deaf  as  a  door 
knob,  dumb  as  a  dish-cloth.  Yet,  there  are  moments 
when  the  veil  seems  lifted. 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  13 

JANE 

Are  there? 
JOHN 

Shall  I  prove  it  to  you? 
JANE 

Do. 

JOHN 

Will  telling  you  what  Master  Augustin  and  you  are 
debating  prove  it?  (He  has  struck  home.  Her 
hands  drop  to  her  sides;  the  stamp  flutters  to  the 
floor.  Having  delivered  this  proof  that  he  is  not, 
perhaps,  so  blind,  after  all,  he  looks  fixedly  into  her 
eyes  for  an  instant)  You  dropped  the  missionary. 
{He  quietly  picks  up  the  stamp,  lays  it  on  the  table 
and  goes  to  the  door  left)  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute. 
(Jane,  silent,  stares  after  him.  In  a  moment  he  re 
turns  with  hat,  overcoat,  rubbers  and  umbrella. 
Jane  still  stands  where  he  left  her) 
Rather  decent  of  me  to  get  out,  so  you  might  ar 
range  your  thoughts?  Sometimes  even  a  wife  must 
be  ready.  And  a  husband  must  always  be  prepared. 

JANE 

For  how  long  have  you  had  them  ready,  your  clever 
little  phrases? 

JOHN 

For  months.     (He  puts  on  his  rubbers) 

JANE 

Still,  you  must  be  quite  upset.     Those  are  your  old 
rubbers. 

JOHN 

So  they  are  .  .   .  that's  dreadful. 

JANE 

And  you've  let  it  go  right  on? 


14.  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

JOHN 

It's  like  typhoid.     The  doctor  does  little  with  these 

fevers. 
JANE 

Are  there  no  medicines  for  them? 
JOHN 

None  that  amount  to  anything. 

JANE 

Poor,  helplessly  clever  John.  You  aren't  able  to 
comprehend  that  some  collector  might  think  me  an 
even  rarer  specimen  than  this.  (Pointing  to  the 
stamp)  Otherwise  you'd  have  reached  out  a  hand 
for  me.  Unless  you  don't  care. 

JOHN 

Don't  talk  nonsense.  (Tenderly)  Is  there  another 
woman  in  all  the  world  who  would  have  known  that 
British  Guinea  was  a  counterfeit? 

JANE 

Then  why  haven't  you  reached  out  a  hand? 

JOHN  (indignantly) 
Haven't  I? 

JANE 

I've  not  observed  it. 

JOHN 

Haven't  I  thrown  you  and  Gussie  together  on  every 
possible  occasion?  (Jane  bursts  out  laughing)  Go 
on,  laugh.  Don't  you  see  it's  the  case  of  the  mut 
ton? 

JANE 

Wonderful  John.  Now  I  see.  What  a  schemer  you 
are. 

JOHN  (benignly,  not  doubting  that  his  scheming  has 
been   a   complete   success)     For   a   change   anyone 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  15 

might  enjoy  a  taste  of  mush.  Mush,  I  say.  But 
for  a  steady  diet  there  is  nothing  like  mutton.  So 
I  reasoned,  if  I  fed  you  up  on  mush,  you'd  get  sick 
of  mush.  Mush;  it  turns  the  stomach. 

JANE 

Are  you  sure  it  does? 

JOHN  (patting  her  benevolently  on  the  head} 
Why,  of  course,  my  adorable  child. 

JANE 

How  can  you  explain,  then,  why  it  is,  that  the  more  I 
get  of  mush,  the  more  I  want  of  it?  Jack,  Jack,  if 
only  you'd  kept  some  of  it  in  your  make-up. 

JOHN  (soothingly) 
We  are  as  we  are. 

JANE 

Heavens !  And  now  you're  going  to  say  "  To  thine 
own  self  be  true." 

JOHN 
Well? 

JANE 

Well?     And  what  of  the  woman?     And  which  one  of 

your  several  selves?     The  one  that  once  published  a 

sonnet  sequence? 
JOHN  (with  a  wry  face) 

Dead  and  gone  —  and  thank  God. 
JANE  (quoting) 

"  Dawn's  bloom  across  the  night,  O  sacred  flame, 

Love,  inextinguishably  bright,  you  came." 
JOHN  (anguished) 

Stop.     I  implore  you. 
JANE 

That  little  book;  it  was  the  first  present  you  gave 


16  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

me.     And  you  killed  the  man  who  wrote  it  —  and 

buried  him  deep  in  the  ground. 
JOHN  (very  much  upset) 

Then  don't  dig  up  the  remains. 
JANE 

And  what  has  that  self  of  jours  done  to  this  self  of 

mine  ?     What  have  you  known  of  my  growing  pains  ? 

You've  clothed  me,  fed  me,  housed  me.     You've  had 

no  mistresses.     I  wish  you  had. 
JOHN  (aghast) 

What? 

JANE 

You  might  have  really  cared  for  lamb  once  in  a 

while.     But  the  judge  has  murdered  the  man.     And 

it  was  the  man  I  married.     So  you  needn't  have  been 

so  considerate.     You  needn't  have  given  me  time  to 

get  ready.     I  am  ready. 
JOHN  (composedly) 

You  can't  frighten  me.     He's  far  too  much  of  an 

ass.     And  now,  really,  I  must  run  along. 
JANE 

Bottom  made  Titania  happy.     (The  bell  rings;  there 

is  a  pause)     "  To  thine  own  — " 
JOHN 

It's  the  very  corner-stone. 
JANE 

I  suppose  I'm  entitled  to  my  little  corner-stone? 
JOHN 

Absolutely. 
JANE 

I  intend  to  have  it. 
JOHN  (at  the  door-way,  just  leaving,  but  politely  inter- 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  17 

ested)     Good!     And   just   how    do   you    intend   to 

carry  out  this  admirable  theory? 
JANE 

Haven't  I  made  that  clear? 
JOHN  {unruffled) 

Scarcely. 
JANE  {very  quietly) 

I  propose  to  carry  it  out  by  going  away  with  Au- 

gustin. 
JOHN  {amused  at  the  idea) 

It's    always     an    interesting    theory  —  though,    of 

course,  not  novel. 
JANE 

And  you're  sure  it's  only  a  theory? 
JOHN  {his  hand  on  the  door-knob) 

How  can  it  possibly  be  anything  else?     My  regards 

to  Augustin. 
JANE  (confronting  him  and  looking  him  squarely  m  the 

eyes)     It's  unthinkable  folly,  isn't  it? 
JOHN  (stroking  her  cheek) 

And  we  have  sense,  we  have. 
JANE 

Have  we? 
JOHN 

Haven't  we? 
JANE  (quietly  removing  his  hand) 

I'm  afraid  not.     It's  going  to  happen. 

[There  is  a  long,  silent  moment.     John  peers  mto 

her  face;  slowly  his  complacent  look  changes  to  one 

of    doubt.     They    are    standmg    near    the    hearth. 

Steps  are  heard  on  the  stair-case.     Jane  crosses  the 

room  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.     John  remains  half- 

hidden  at  the  fireplace.     And  now  Augustin  enters. 


18  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

He  is  dripping  wet.  His  soft,  broad-brimmed  hat 
drops  puddles,  his  shoes  are  soaking.  Augustin  is  a 
tall  and  slender  youth,  aged  about  seven  and  twenty; 
his  face  is  wan;  there  are  shadows  under  his  eyes;  his 
hair  is  curly  and  needs  the  barber's  sJiears;  his  attire 
is  intended  to  be  consciously  unusual,  but  he  has 
achieved  little  more  than  the  low  collar,  the  flowing 
Windsor  tie,  the  baggy  paint-soiled  trousers  of  the 
young  artist.  In  Bohemia  he  is  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
convention.  On  the  stage  —  and  he  is  an  inveterate 
theatre-goer  —  he  would  be  a  perfect  type.  Yet, 
taken  altogether,  if  Augustm  is  mush,  there  is,  it 
cannot  be  gainsaid,  something  about  him  that  makes 
mush  not  altogether  unpalatable  for  one  weary  of 
mutton.  At  the  door-way,  he  pauses,  a  poseur,  per 
haps, —  does  not  adolescence  always  strike  attitudes? 
—  but  a  poetic  and  alluring  figure  of  youth  just  the 
same,  casts  his  wet  hat  with  a  sweeping  gesture  from 
him  to  fall  where  it  may,  passes  his  hand  over  his  wet 
brow,  brushes  a  few  stray  dripping  strands  from  his 
eyes,  and,  not  seeing  John,  stretches  his  arms  out 
and  clasps  Jane's  two  hands,  bends  over  her  and 
covers  her  arms  with  kisses. 

AUGUSTIN 

Rose  of  the  world !  (John,  awake  at  last  to  the  real 
ity  of  the  impossible  thmg,  has  seized  the  poker,  and 
moves  grimly  toward  them.  Augustin  turns  to  John, 
For  a  moment  he  is  startled;  but  he  collects  himself 
instantly  and  from  his  greater  height  frowns  down 
on  John,  as  upon  an  intruder.  But  John  is  not  im 
pressed.  John  advances  grimly,  clenching  the  poker) 

JOHN 

Once  in   a  while  a  rat  gets  into  my  house.     This 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  19 

poker  has  finished  more  than  one  bit  of  vermin.  {He 
raises  the  -weapon.  It  is  a  formidable  one  and  John 
means  business.  But  Augustin,  arms  majestically 
folded,  stands  unflinching.  Jane,  knowing  John, 
looks  on  unmoved,  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  lips) 

AUGUSTIN 

Go  on.  Go  on.  Why  pause,  in  this,  life's  crucial 
moment?  Smite  if  you  dare.  Kill,  if  you  can. 
Will  it  bring  back  what  you  have  lost? 
\John  stares  menacingly  into  Augustm's  face.  A 
curious  thing  happens.  The  poker  develops  a  wiU 
of  its  own.  It  declines  to  descend.  Why  will  not 
this  fellow  flght?  or  at  least  run  away?  The  poker's 
a  dangerous  weapon.  One  might  hit  too  hard.  A 
cracked  skull?  An  indictment?  The  judicial  hab 
its  of  a  decade  stay  his  arm.  It  relaxes;  gradually 
he  lowers  the  poker.  He  drops  it.  It  clatters  upon 
the  floor. 

JOHN 

I'm  afraid  he's  right,  Jane.  I  may  as  well  go  to  my 
meeting. 

JANE 

By  no  means,  John.  We've  started.  But  we  have 
not  finished. 

JOHN 

My  dear  child,  it's  mutton  or  mush.  There's  noth 
ing  left  but  for  the  jury  to  retire.  I  shall  return  in 
an  hour  to  take  the  verdict. 

JANE 

But,  if  I  have  some  things  to  say  to  you? 

JOHN  (resignedly') 

Very  well.  Come,  Gussie,  we'll  talk  the  thing  to  tat 
ters.  Let's  sit  down  and  be  uncomfortable.  Have 


20  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

a  cigar?  {He  lights  one  himself)  The  dear  old  tri 
angle,  sometimes  obtuse,  often  acute,  but  never  right. 
(He  drops  into  the  arm  chair  near  the  fire)  But 
look  at  Gussie.  The  poor  thing's  soaking.  First 
we  must  take  care  of  him.  A  hot  toddy,  Gussie? 

JANE 

Poor  boy,  you  are  wet. 

[Augustin  knows  very  well  he  is  wet.  He  would  like 
nothing  better  than  a  hot  toddy.  But  to  Augustin 
this  dripping  entrance  was  irresistible. 

AUGUSTIN  (spurning  the  suggestion  of  hot  toddy  and 
addressing  Jane)  Rose  of  the  world,  I  came  to  you, 
my  heart  was  singing,  my  eyes  were  with  the  stars. 
Was  it  raining? 

JOHN 

Was  it  raining?     Rose  of  the  world,  he  is  superb. 

JANE  (from  the  hearth) 

Come  here,  please,  Augustin. 

AUGUSTIN  (obedient,  though  wondering  what  the  devil 
she  is  up  to)  Rose  of  the  world. 

JANE 

Your  coat,  please.  Why,  it's  drenched.  (And  she 
makes  him  take  it  off)  Now,  this,  please.  (And  she 
holds  the  smoking  jacket  outspread) 

JOHN 

My  smoking  jacket? 

JANE 

Put  it  on.  (And  she  forces  the  arms  of  the  mutely 
and  vainly  protesting  Augustin  into  the  ridiculous 
garment  which  is  absurdly  tight  and  short  in  the 
sleeves) 

JOHN 

See  here,  Jane.     Why  don't  we  take  off  his  shoes? 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  21 

Gussie's  feet  are  sopping.     November  weather;  the 
grippe;  regular  epidemic. 
JANE  (coolly) 

It's  a  splendid  idea.  Augustin,  won't  you  please  sit 
on  the  footstool?  (Gently  but  firmly  she  pushes  Au 
gustin  to  the  footstool  and  sets  to  work  to  unlace  his 
boots) 

AUGUSTIN 

I  beg  you,  dearest  one  — 
JANE  (with  a  look  at  John) 

Love's  service.     Don't  stop  me,  Augustin. 
JOHN  (looking  on) 

Charming,  charming.     But  do  we  progress? 
JANE  (having  now  unlaced  the  boots) 

Lift  up  your  foot. 
JOHN 

Up,  Gussie. 

[Augustin  with  a  hopeless  gesture  lifts  his  foot.     She 

pulls  off  a  boot.     It  makes  a  wet  scrunch  as  it  comes 

off. 
AUGUSTIN  (involuntarily) 

O!     O! 

JOHN 

His  pet  corn.     Do  be  careful,  Jane. 

JANE 

The  other  one,  please.  (Off  comes  the  other.  She 
places  his  feet  on  the  fender  and  puts  the  carpet  slip 
pers  on  them)  There. 

JOHN 

Ich  dien.     Love's  service.     Sacred  ceremony. 

AUGUSTIN  (pickmg  up  John's  ridicule  and,  with  a  thrill 
ing  voice,  transmuting  it  into  a  lyric)  Love's  serv 
ice.  Rose  of  the  world — (he  takes  her  hands) 


22  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

Dearest  one.      (He  presses  them  to  his  lips,  sniffs  m- 

voluntarily,  and  draws  away) 

[This  is  John's  chance  and  he  takes  it. 
JOHN 

Love's  service.     His  boots,  Jane.     His  head  was  in 

the   stars.     But  where  were  Augustin's   dear  little 

feet  ?     (  With  which  exceedingly  vulgar  remark  John 

bursts  into  loud  laughter.     To  complete  tlie  victory 

he  laughs  loudly  and  a  little  longer  than  is  needful. 

To  his  surprise  he  finds  that  his  laughter  has  rather 

a  hollow  sound.     It  dies  away  lamely) 
JANE  (looking  at  him  pityingly) 

A  few  moments  ago  I  asked  you  to  stay,  John.     I 

told  you  we  had  only  started.     Now  — 
JOHN 

But  now  I  don't  want  to  go. 
JANE 

You  needn't.     We're  going.     If  you  are  sure,  Au- 

gustin? 
AITGUSTIN,  (springing  to  his  feet) 

You  mean  it? 
JANE 

If  you  want  me. 

AUGUSTIN 

Need  you  ask? 

JANE 

One  has  to  be  awfully  certain. 

AUGUSTIN  (a  little  frightened  at  his  daring  and  giving 
her  a  chance  to  back  out)  He  is  a  proud  master  of 
laws  and  men.  I  am  an  humble  servant  of  art.  I 
am  poor  —  he  is  mighty.  He  is  an  emperor.  I  am 
a  slave. 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  23 

JOHN  (reassuringly) 

Don't  be  so  scared,  Gussie.     She  doesn't  really  mean 
it,  you  know. 

AUGUSTIN  (stung  by  John's  penetration  and  swept  away 
for  the  moment  by  his  real  belief  in  his  own  passion) 
But  if  utter  devotion,  if  the  adoration  of  the  slave, 
if  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star,  the  hunger  of 
the  bud  for  the  glory  of  spring  suffice  to  make  you 
sure,  come.  (And,  as  if  it  were  a  solemn  rite, 
he  clasps  Jane  to  his  breast,  adoringly,  protect- 
ingly,  masterfully.  It  is  more  than  John  can 
stand) 

JOHN  (in  a  furious  treble, —  his  voice,  as  it  is  apt 
to  do  m  very  tense  moments,  cracking)  Take  your 
hands  off  my  wife.  Get  out  of  my  house. 

AUGUSTIN  ( rising  splendidly  to  the  occasion,  Jane  in  his 
arms)  The  Judge  enjoins  us.  Do  you  think  this 
your  grimy  court  room?  No,  this  is  the  wide  field 
of  life.  The  law  ?  Man-made  dogma ;  you  who  fat 
ten  on  it,  what  do  you  know  of  God's  decrees?  Was 
she  once  yours?  Did  you  minister  to  her  dreams, 
feed  her  aspirations?  Now  she  is  mine,  mine  by  the 
divine  law  which  has  made  me  hers. 
[John  is  heartily  ashamed  of  his  outburst,  and  now, 
dead  in  earnest,  he  makes  his  last  stand. 

JOHN 

And  so,  Jane,  the  argument  of  eight  years  is  noth 
ing? 

JANE 

I  am  not  old  enough  to  live  in  the  past. 

JOHN 

Have  we  quarreled? 


24.  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

JANE 

At  first.  It  was  then  I  was  happy.  We  struck 
sparks. 

JOHN 

Aren't  we  good  pals?     Haven't  we  the  same  tastes? 

JANE 

We  both  drink  orange  juice  at  breakfast,  I  admit. 

JOHN 

Don't  we  loathe  the  same  people?  The  Vanderbocks, 
the  Griswolds?  Hey,  Jennie? 

AUGUSTIN  (  contemptuously  ) 

And  you  both  enjoy  the  movies,  I  believe.  What 
ties! 

JOHN 

Yes,  Augustin.  And  so  do  we  both  like  the  windows 
wide  open  at  night  —  no  matter  how  freezing  it  is. 
Do  you?  And  we  love  Beethoven,  beefsteak  and  the 
Bab-Ballads,  and  abominate  the  opera  and  dote  on 
our  Sunday  afternoon  foursomes.  Why,  we  even 
like  your  pictures,  both  of  us.  I'm  sure  you're  with 
us  there.  And  then  there  are  the  stamps.  You're 
not  throwing  all  that  overboard,  Jane? 

JANE  (moved) 

They  do  count  —  those  things.  But,  Jack,  those  are 
the  trifles.  Don't  you  see  it's  best  for  us  both  to  say 
good-bye?  Don't  you  see  I'm  no  more  to  you  than 
you  to  me?  Don't  you  see  that  in  all  the  big  things, 
the  real  things,  you  have  given  me  nothing  but  ashes 
when  I  begged,  simply  begged,  for  only  a  crust? 

JOHN 

But  don't  you  see  it's  all  these  little  things  that  make 
up  that  big  thing  called  life?  Sympathy,  com 
munion  and  all  that?  Don't  you  see  that  your 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  25 

graceful  little  slippers  won't  fit  him  any  better 
than  they  do  me?  It  can't  be  done.  Don't  you  see 
that? 

AUGUSTIN 

Thank  God  I'm  blind. 

JOHN 

But  you,  Jane? 
JANE  (doubtfully) 

Perhaps  you're  right.     But  if  you  are,  I  want  to  be 

blind  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
JOHN 

But  your  eyes  are  open,  old  girl.     You  can't  shut 

them;  you  can't. 
AUGUSTIN  (bending  over  her  head) 

If  only  I  had  more  to  offer  you. 
JOHN  (blithely —  the  victory  in  his  grasp) 

One  does  wonder  about  the  rent. 
JANE  (landing  upon  terra  firma  with  a  terrific  impact) 

The  rent? 
JOHN  (irrevocably  in  the  mire) 

The  landlord   and   the  butcher.     They   always   ob 
trude. 
JANE 

Now,  I  see.  .  .  .  You've  made  it  all  so  clear. 

AUGUSTIN 

On  the  one  hand  (with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  takes  in 

the  room)  you  have  all  this;  on  the  other, —  dear, 

dear  heart, —  you  have  only  me. 
JANE  (in  a  tone  that  leaves  no  doubt) 

I've  made  my  choice. 
JOHN  (knowing  it's  all  over,  but  a  game  loser) 

It's  all  up  with  you,  Gussie.     You've  won. 


26  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON        [ACT  i 

AUGUSTIN 

Grow  fat  while  we  starve,  and  who  shall  be  the  richer? 

JOHN  (sinking  into  a  chair") 

That's  the  problem  —  and  well  put. 

AUGUSTIN 

We  shall  beg  on  street  corners,  and  you  may  drop  a 
penny  in  my  hat. 

JOHN 

Or  commit  you  for  vagrancy. 

AUGUSTIN  (brilliantly  ironic) 

The  victory  is  yours  —  your  creed  of  life  —  But 
we  are  magnanimous.  We  do  not  grudge  you  it. 

JANE  ( bending  over  John's  chair  and  kissing  him  lightly 
on  the  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head)  I've  always 
been  fond  of  you.  (She  takes  Augustin's  arm  and 
leads  him  to  the  door  at  the  back.  The  slippers  flop 
as  he  follows  her.  He  casts  a  hopeless  look  at  his 
coat  and  shoes.  But  he  knows  that  they  are  lost  for 
ever) 

JOHN 

Better  take  a  rain-coat,  Jane. 

[They  have  reached  the  stairway. 

Keep  an  eye  open  for  that  five  cent  Hawaiian.  .  .  . 

[He  rises  and  looks  after  them.     Jane  has  already 

disappeared  down  tJie  stairs.     There  remains  to  be 

seen   of   the  pair  only  Augustin's   head  and  back. 

Look  here.     My  smoking  jacket. 

JANE  (hysterically) 

The  smoking  jacket.  The  carpet  slippers.  We'll 
take  them  for  keepsakes.  (They  go  down  the  stairs. 
From  below,  unseen,  Jane  calls)  Your  pills,  John. 
Isn't  it  time  for  them?  (A  door  slams) 


ACT  i]        THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  27 

JOHN  (going  to  the  open  door) 

Jane,  Jane.  (But  no  answer  comes)  Poor  Jane. 
(He  looks  down  the  stairs,  then  he  goes  to  the  wm- 
dow,  raises  the  shade,  opens  the  window;  the  rain 
beats  in  upon  him)  She'll  get  drenched.  (He  leans 
out,  calling)  Hey,  you  two!  (Louder)  Jane! 
(At  the  top  of  his  voice)  Jane!  Jane!  Don't  do 
this.  Jane!  Jane!  (He  closes  the  window  with  a 
bang)  She's  done  it.  Poor  old  girl.  .  .  .  What  a 
pity.  .  .  .  It'll  be  lonely.  Still  life  goes  right  on. 
What  a  bungler  I've  been.  .  .  .  Brace  up.  No 
impure  passion  of  remorse.  (The  clock  strikes  ten. 
He  watcJies  it,  takes  a  little  bottle  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  extracts  two  pills,  makes  a  great  business  of 
swallowing  them,  takes  a  gulp  of  water  from  the  glass 
on  the  table)  Bitter,  bitter.  (He  opens  the  win 
dow  once  more.  The  ram  beats  in  upon  him) 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

SCENE  :  Ten  months  later.  It  is  about  four  o'clock 
of  a  September  afternoon.  The  domicile  of  Jane  and 
Augustin.  They  occupy  a  chamber  on  the  top  story 
of  a  Venetian  palace.  It  is  a  large,  splendid  and  inde 
scribably  shabby  room.  But,  magnificent  as  it  was  in 
the  days  of  the  Doges,  the  squalor  to  which  it  has  fatten 
awakens  a  genuine  feeling  of  pity. 

The  cracked  watts  are  spotted  with  mould.  Large 
areas  of  plaster  have  fallen  away.  The  handsome  pi 
lasters  at  the  doorways  are  irreparably  damaged;  the 
cornices  are  chipped;  the  paint  has  peeled.  At  the 
back  of  the  room,  extending  nearly  its  entire  width, 
are  windows.  The  latticed  blinds  are  down  to  keep  out 
the  sun's  glare.  The  room  has  two  entrances,  one  at 
tlie  left,  the  other  nearly  opposite. 

There  is  an  easel  in  the  middle  of  the  room  upon 
which  stands  a  nearly  finished  canvas, —  a  life-size  self- 
portrait  of  Augustin, —  done  chiefly  in  oranges  and 
purples, —  and  really  very  well  painted, —  a  dozen  or  so 
of  paint  rags  lie  on  the  floor  near  the  easel.  Paint 
brushes,  tins  of  turpentine,  palettes, —  the  tools  of  the 
trade, —  are  to  be  seen. 

This  room  is  their  studio,  bedroom,  dining-room  and 
kitchen,  and  contains  their  various  impedimentia.  At 
the  left  stands  a  pine  table,  upon  which  are  an  oil  stove 
and  tin  plates;  cheap  knives  and  forks  are  upon  the 

table.     Beside  the  oil  stove  is  a  cupboard  littered  with 

31 


32  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

dishes,  pots,  pans,  bottles,  packages,  oranges,  a  jar  of 
pickles,  etc, —  a  piece  of  faded  brocade  is  tacked  along 
the  top  of  the  cupboard,  but  is  thrown  aside.  There  is 
also  a  wash-stand, —  a  soiled  roller-towel  above. 

Along  the  opposite  wall  are  a  double  bed  and  chest  of 
drawers,  a  pier-glass  and  a  couch  strewn  with  disor 
dered  coverlets;  on  the  couch  lies  Augustin  sprawling  at 
full  length  and  nursing  a  cold.  Augustin  wears  a  little 
Vandyke  beard. 

There  are  many  hooks  on  the  wall;  and  from  these 
depend  various  articles  of  attire.  In  a  dark  corner  one 
may,  if  observant,  discern  shoes,  paint-rags,  rolls  of 
canvas.  One  must  admit  that  the  occupants  of  this 
room  are  not  meticulous  in  the  matter  of  housekeeping. 

Presently  someone  fumbles  at  the  door  left.  Augus- 
tm  springs  eagerly  to  his  feet.  Jane  enters,  leaving 
the  door  open.  Seeing  it  is  she,  Augustin  drops  back 
to  the  couch,  greatly  disappointed. 

AUGUSTIN 

It's  you. 

JANE 

Whom  were  you  expecting? 

AUGUSTIN 

Witherspoon. 

JANE 

O! 

[Silence  descends  on  them.  A  basket  hangs  on  Jane's 
arm.  This  she  carries  to  the  table  upon  which  she 
empties  its  contents, —  potatoes,  carrots,  a  loaf  of 
bread,  several  little  parcels.  At  the  sight  of  food 
Augustin  cheers  up  the  least  bit.  He  lifts  himself 
for  a  moment  on  his  elbows,  glances  at  the  potatoes 


ACT  u]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  33 

and  carrots,  but  almost  at  once  drops  back  despond 
ently.  Jane  puts  on  an  apron, —  it  is  rather  soiled, 
—  gets  a  pan  and  a  knife;  lifts  the  lid  of  a  pot  that 
is  simmering  on  the  stove,  stirs  the  contents,  tastes 
the  concoction,  shakes  in  a  bit  of  salt,  settles  herself 
into  a  rocking  chair  and  busies  herself  slicing  and 
paring  the  potatoes.  This  job  accomplished,  she 
puts  them  and  a  dab  of  butter  into  the  pan  and  sets  it 
on  the  stove.  She  cuts  a  few  thick  slices  of  bread. 

AUGUSTIN 

Thinner  slices,  I  implore  you,  rose  of  the  world. 

[Without   answering,   Jane  looks   at   the  pot   once 

more.     As  she  lifts  the  lid  the  steam  arises  from  it. 

Augustin  sniffs. 
AUGUSTIN 

O  God!     Cabbage  again?     (He  lifts  himself  with  a 

groan  to  a  sitting  posture) 
JANE 

Your  cold  must  be  a  little  better.     The  lumbago  bad 

as  ever? 

[But  Augustin  only  shakes  his  head  in  despair. 

Cheer  up.     A  cold  and  lumbago.     Poor  me,  I  haven't 

got  anything  at  all. 
AUGUSTIN 

Mock.     Mock. 

JANE 

A  stiff  back  requires  a  stiff  lip,  Gussie.     Never  mind, 

it's  darkest  before  the  dawn. 
AUGUSTIN 

The  dawn.     It  only  shows  our  misery  the  clearer. 

Why  did  I  bring  you  down  to  this? 
JANE 

Am  I  complaining? 


34r  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

AUGUSTIN 

My   brave,   brave   girl.     (A    fit   of  sneezing   seizes 
him) 
JANE 

I  told  you  you  ought  to  wear  your  muffler. 
[A  baby's  crying  rends  the  air. 

AUGUSTIN 

It  has  been  howling  for  hours. 
JANE 

But  think  of  what  we  owe  that  child.  For  the  few 
hours  a  day  I  take  care  of  him  see  what  Mrs.  Ves- 
puccio  does  for  us. 

AUGUSTIN 

Does  for  us?  Look  at  this  place.  Every  chord  in 
me  revolts. 

JANE 

But,  Gussie  dear,  one  does  have  to  keep  going  aw 
fully  hard  after  you.  Just  look  at  the  paint  rags. 
(She  gathers  them.  They  are  silent  again) 

AUGUSTIN 

Have  you  found  out  how  he  discovered  our  where 
abouts  ? 

JANE  (shortly) 

It  doesn't  interest  me. 

AUGUSTIN 

Patterson  and  Company  will  give  us  a  thousand 
pounds  for  those  stamps. 

JANE  (turning  to  him  with  compressed  lips) 
You  wrote? 

AUGUSTIN 

Yes,  I  wrote.     I  wrote.     I  wrote.     Was  it  a  crime? 

JANE 

You  know  I  won't  sell  them. 


ACT  H]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  35 

AUGUSTIN 

You  admit  they  are  yours.  He  only  sent  you  what 
belongs  to  you.  Tardily  enough,  too. 

JANE  (icily) 

We've  been  all  over  that. 

AUGUSTIN 

Do  I  want  the  money  for  myself?  Do  I?  What 
sentiment  for  him  makes  you  keep  them,  then?  An 
swer  me  that. 

JANE 

Is  that  fair? 

AUGUSTIN 

When  I  think  that  nothing  less  than  starvation  faces 
you  — 

JANE 

What?     With  all  this  cabbage? 

AUGUSTIN 

O  God.  Cabbage.  I'm  out  of  rose  madder.  Not 
another  tube  of  vert  emeraud.  That  ends  the  paint 
ing. 

JANE  (a  little  impatiently} 

Art  must  starve,  too,  for  a  little  while.  (Concttiat- 
ingly)  Never  mind,  Gussie,  you've  painted  a  lot. 
It  won't  hurt  you  to  loaf. 

AUGUSTIN 

You're  right.     Who  cares  whether  I  paint  or  not  ? 

JANE 

That's  silly.     With  your  two  canvases  on  the  line ! 

AUGUSTIN 

What  does  it  amount  to?  Who  looks  at  them?  The 
artists  —  the  real  ones  —  they  know.  I'm  no  good, 
Jane.  The  pictures  are  fourth-rate.  I  am  fourth- 
rate. 


36  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  11 

JANE 

Third,  anyway,  Gussie.  Come  along  now;  show  me 
what  you've  been  doing.  (She  takes  a  step  towards 
the  canvas)  Why,  Gussie,  you've  not  touched 
it.  ... 

AUGUSTIN 

It's  not  worth  while. 

JANE 

And  you  put  me  out  just  so  you  might  work  alone. 
.  .  .  Lazy  boy  .  .  .  (his  remark  about  Wither- 
spoon  flashes  back  into  her  mind  .  .  .  reproach 
fully)  You  sent  me  away  because  of  Witherspoon. 
.  .  .  That  wasn't  quite  frank,  was  it?  .  .  .  (Her 
voice  grows  a  little  sharp)  .  .  .  Was  it?  .  .  .  Was 
it? 

AUGUSTIN 

Yes,  I  was  deceiving  you.  Yes,  I  was  lying.  Yes,  I 
was  trying  to  hide  from  you  the  fact  that  he  will  not 
come  where  his  friend's  wife  is.  Yes,  I  tried  to  spare 
you.  He  said  something  about  buying  a  picture. 
(Brokenly)  He  never  even  came. 
JANE  (remorsefully) 

Never  mind.  He'll  be  here  tomorrow. 
[Augustwi  sinks  into  the  couch  in  black  despair. 
Jane  resumes  attention  to  the  stove.  And  now 
a  man's  figure  appears  at  the  open  doorway.  A 
conspicuous  object  enough,  resplendently  clad  in 
white  flannels,  a  white  cap  perched  jauntily  on  his 
head,  a  rose  in  his  button-hole,  he  stands  never 
theless  unnoticed  by  Jane  and  Augustin.  It  is  diffi 
cult  to  believe  that  this  is  John.  For  the  man  is 
lean,  bronzed,  flt  and  ten  years  younger  than  the 
John  of  ten  months  ago.  But  John  has  had  a  vac  a- 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  37 

tion.  He  has  climbed  the  Andes,  bathed  m  the  surf 
at  Hawaii,  played  golf  at  Sandwich  and  Prestwick, 
flirted  with  the  pretty  Geisha  girls,  gazed  at  the 
Sphinx  and  crossed  the  Siberian  steppes.  With  si 
lent  interest  he  surveys  the  scene,  gaining  some  idea 
of  where  their  dreams  and  aspirations  have  led  them. 
Augustin  lifts  his  head. 

AUGUSTIN 

Jane,  the  tobacco!     You  didn't  forget? 

JANE 

Sorry.     No  more  till  we  pay  up. 

AUGUSTIN 

My  God.     No  tobacco!  .  .  .  O,  my  God. 

JOHN  (briskly) 

Have  one  of  my  cigars?  (John  has  exploded  his 
bomb.  The  results  are  instant.  Augustin,  the  lum 
bago  forgotten,  springs  to  his  feet,  staring  at  the 
apparition.  Jane,  less  demonstrative,  is,  however, 
no  less  startled.  She  stands,  spoon  upraised,  as  if 
turned  into  a  pillar)  May  the  Philistine  enter  the 
shrine  of  art,  the  temple  of  romance?  .  .  .  So,  at 
last,  my  dear,  dear  friends,  we  meet  again.  And  to 
think  that  but  for  that  piece  in  the  Art  News  I'd 
have  gone  on  to  Cortina.  (He  draws  near  Jane) 
Not  a  word  for  the  lonely  wanderer?  Don't  let  the 
potatoes  be  over-done.  (And  lie  moves  them  away 
from  the  flame)  And  now,  dear  lady,  may  one  say 
how-de-do?  (And  he  offers  his  hand.  She,  cook- 
like,  wiping  hers  on  her  apron,  a  performance  which 
John  takes  in  with  interest,  grasps  his  warmly.  It 
has  cost  her  an  effort,  but  she  has  pulled  herself  to 
gether) 


38  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JANE 

One  may,  indeed,  though  I'm  afraid  I  should  hardly 
have  recognized  you. 

JOHN 

Look  pretty  fit,  hey? 

JANE 

Magnificent. 

JOHN 

These  white  flannels.     Like  'em? 

JANE 

Immensely. 

JOHN  (to  Augustm) 

Not  the  way  a  broken-hearted  man  should  look? 
But  within, —  ah,  within,  I  bleed.  Cold  in  your 
head?  (In  answer  to  a  fit  of  sneezing  from  Angus- 
tin)  Nasty  things.  Try  a  physic.  And  other 
wise?  (He  shakes  Augustin's  hand  energetically) 

JANE 

Poor  fellow,  he  has  lumbago,  too. 

JOHN 

That  is  tough.  But  here,  I  forgot  all  about  the 
cigar.  Perfecto,  from  the  U.  S.  Saw  your  two  pic 
tures  at  the  Exposition.  Charming  things.  (Au- 
gustvn  gratefully  takes  the  cigar  and  lights  it  with 
vast  relish.  John's  eye  is  meantime  roving  'round 
the  room.  He  approaclies  the  canvas}  Good. 
You've  not  been  idle.  Coming  along,  my  boy. 
Lovely  color.  (Maliciously)  Quite  like  Matisse; 
—  passages  of  Cezanne,  too.  Full  of  reminders 
of  the  great  ones?  A  trifle  sweet?  What  do  I 
know  about  it?  Nothing.  (But  the  barbs  have 
sunk) 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  39 

AUGUSTIN  (utterly  downcast) 

Too  true.  Too  true.  What  am  I  but  a  feeble 
mimic  ? 

JOHN  (consolingly) 

A  handful  lead.  The  rest  of  us  must  follow.  At 
least  you  have  Jane.  (Cheerfully)  Think  of  my 
lonely,  miserable  ten  months. 

AUGUSTIN  (sympathetic  at  once) 
How  my  heart  has  bled  for  you. 

JANE 

And  what  have  you  been  doing  to  mend  the  broken 
heart  ? 

JOHN 

New  scenes  to  find  oblivion.  In  fact,  I've  been  'round 
the  globe,  my  dears.  What  a  lark.  Oh,  blessed 
freedom.  Climbed  the  Andes,  crossed  the  Sahara, 
made  friends  with  the  Sphinx,  golf  at  Prestwick,  mo 
toring  through  Japan, —  wonderful  roads, —  gaso 
lene  so  cheap, —  and  as  for  the  little  Geisha  girls ! 
After  all,  what's  the  use  of  crying  over  spilt  matri 
mony? 

JANE 

After  the  fifth  time,  John,  you  promised  me  you'd 
never  repeat  that.  However,  I  forgive  you.  It's  so 
true. 

JOHN 

Particularly  when  one  doesn't  want  to  cry.  Gussie, 
doesn't  Jane  look  the  least  trifle  seedy  .  .  .  charm 
ing,  but  seedy?  Too  much  mush,  Gussie.  You 
should  vary  her  diet. 

JANE 

But  this  isn't  mush.     It's  cabbage. 


40  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JOHN  (beside  the  stove) 

The  law  simmers  down  to  mutton;  the  arts  stew  up 
into  cabbage.  (In  his  roving s  John  has  found  a 
tattered  old  garment  on  a  peg  on  the  wall.  It  is 
still  recognizable.  With  infinite  tenderness  he  takes 
it  down)  Dear  old  jacket.  I  forgave  you  every 
thing  else,  Gussie.  However,  by-gones  are  by-gones. 
Keep  it.  It's  a  sacred  relic.  (And  he  hangs  it  back 
reverently}  And  now  to  be  with  my  two  dearest 
friends. 

JANE 

But,  my  dear  John,  how  did  you  manage  to  steal 
away  ? 

JOHN 

Told  Higgins  I  had  to.  Said  you'd  caught  a  sudden 
fever. 

AUGUSTIN  (obviously  pleased) 
So  they  don't  know  over  there? 

JANE 

That  was  sweet  of  you,  John.  But  it  wasn't  sudden, 
you  know.  It  has  been  coming  on  for  years. 

JOHN 

And  has  she  got  over  it,  Augustin? 

AUGUSTIN  (starting  to  make  a  speech) 
The  dreams  of  — 

JANE  (her  hand  over  his  mouth) 

Have  I,  dear?  (But  somehow  she  fails  to  convince, 
and,  glancing  sidewise  at  John,  perceives  this.  So 
she  turns  upon  him  insouciantly)  And  tomorrow,  I 
suppose,  you  continue  on  your  travels? 

JOHN  (instantly) 

Tonight.     The  Innsbruck  express. 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  41 

AUGUSTIN 

So  soon?  No,  no,  we  cannot  let  you  go  like  that. 
Art  is  not  law.  Our  quarters  are  narrow.  Such  as 
they  are,  they  are  yours. 

JANE 

Nonsense,  Augustin.     He'd  be  horribly  in  the  way. 

JOHN 

Besides  where'd  I  sleep?  No,  Gussie,  it  won't  do  to 
put  you  out.  Or  can  we  arrange  it,  Jane?  (He 
smells  the  cabbage  again)  That  cabbage.  My 
mouth  waters. 

JANE 

You  found  the  right  pills,  at  last? 

JOHN 

I  threw  them  all  into  the  ash  can. 

JANE 

You  see  how  wise  we  all  were.  It  was  I  that  dis 
agreed. 

JOHN 

They  departed  together,  Gussie;  she  and  the  pills. 
My  two  most  constant  companions.  (He  bangs  a 
knife  handle  against  a  tin-plate)  Dinner.  Dinner. 
(He  adds  a  third  place  at  the  table,  by  moving  up  a 
chair  and  setting  down  the  tin-plate')  Or  is  this 
luncheon  ?  Five  o'clock ;  a  late  luncheon  ?  An  early 
dinner?  Never  mind.  Not  coming,  Gussie? 

AUGUSTIN 
Cabbage  ? 

JOHN  (filing  a  plate  with  the  odorous,  steaming  vege 
table)  Very  well.  (He  carries  it  to  Augustm) 
Ich  dien.  Love's  service.  His  head  was  in  the  stars. 
How  could  he  see  it  was  raining?  Wasn't  he  won 
derful,  Jane? 


42  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JANE 

And  wasn't  it  all  for  the  best? 

[There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  left.  Augustin  open* 
it.  A  grimy  urchin  holds  a  letter.  Augustin  opens 
it  and  reads. 

AUGUSTIN  (tremendously  excited) 
Carpacci !     Carpacci ! 

JANE 

What's  the  matter  with  Carpacci? 

AUGUSTIN 

Carpacci's  downstairs.     Carpacci  wants  to  see  me. 

JANE 

Why  doesn't  he  come  up?     He  generally  does. 

JOHN 

Have  Carpacci  to  lunch.     I  like  the  name. 

AUGUSTIN  (changing  his  coat  rapidly,  no  further 
thought  of  lumbago  in  his  head)  He  writes  the 
stairs  are  too  hard  for  his  wife.  (He  makes  a  bolt 
for  the  door,  bowling  over  the  boy  as  he  rushes  out 
pell-mell.  The  boy,  who  had  expected  a  somewhat 
different  reward  for  his  services,  begins  to  bellow) 

JOHN 

Stop  your  howling,  you  young  rascal.  Here,  take 
this.  (He  sets  the  boy  up  on  his  feet,  gives  him  a 
coin  and  sends  him  on  his  way  rejoicing)  Who's 
Carpacci? 

JANE 

The  President  of  the  Academy  or  something.  Maybe 
the  jury  gave  Gussie  an  honorable  mention.  (Dis 
missing  Augustin)  I  got  those  stamps.  Thanks, 
but  they're  not  mine. 

JOHN  (leaning  against  the  easel) 
Now  you  are  annoying  me. 


ACT  H]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  43 

JANE 

Look  out  for  paint.     Turn  'round.     (He  does  so) 
Your  shoulder.     What  a  shame.     (She  gets  a  bottle 
of  turpentine  and  a  raff) 
JOHN 

Don't  bother.     You  know  those  stamps  belong  to 
you. 

JANE 

Those  gorgeous  clothes!     (And  she  sets  to  work  to 

rub  out  the  spot) 
JOHN 

I  want  to  show  you  something. 
JANE 

Do  stand  still. 
JOHN 

It's  a  stamp.     I  want  your  opinion.     I'm  afraid  it's 

a  counterfeit. 
JANE 

There.     It  doesn't   show   a  bit.     Let  me   see  your 

counterfeit.      (He  takes  it  from  his  wallet  and  hands 

it  to  her)     Isn't  that  wonderful? 
JOHN  (proudly) 

The  set  is  completed. 
JANE 

I  never  believed  you  could  do  it.     It's  splendid. 
JOHN 

Perfect   condition   too.     Got  it  in  Hawaii.     It's   a 

great  yarn.     Some  day  I'll  tell  you.     And  now  if 

you  want  to  make  me  happy,  take  it.     What  good  is 

it  to  me,  since  you  have  the  rest? 
JANE  (touched) 

Thanks,  John.     I  can't. 


44  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JOHN  (begging) 

Please.  .  .  .  Come  now.  .  .  .  Perhaps  .  .  .  more  likely 
than  not  —  we'll  never  see  each  other  again.  And 
we  did  have  wonderful  times  collecting  that  set.  .  .  . 
(The  Vespuccio  baby  is  restive  again.  It  yells  lust 
ily) 

JANE 

Dear  me,  I  must  go  to  the  baby. 

JOHN  (bordering  on  collapse} 
W-What  baby? 

[Jane,  surprised  at  John's  tone,  looks  up  at  him,  vm- 
mediately  dinrines  the  cause  of  his  profound  disturb 
ance,  and  is  immensely  grateful  to  the  Vespuccios  for 
their  offspring. 

JANE 

Paolo.  Four  months  old.  Paolo  and  Francesca, 
you  know. 

JOHN  (aghast) 
Four  — It's  .  .  . 

[There  is  a  timid  knock  at  the  door  right.  Mrs. 
Vespuccio  opens  the  door.  She  is  a  brown-eyed 
young  Madonna.  Her  baby  is  on  her  arm. 

MRS.  VESPUCCIO 
Signora —  prego. 

JANE 

lo  me  ne  vado  —  si, —  si, —  subito. 

[Mrs.  Vespuccio  retires  into  her  apartment. 

JOHN 

The  —  the  nurse,  I  suppose. 

JANE 

No,  idiot, —  the  mother. 

JOHN  (in  a  flat  tone) 
O  —  O  —  I  see. 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  45 

JANE 

I  see  you  do.  She  does  my  washing,  and  helps 
with  cleaning  the  studio  —  not  very  well,  I'm  afraid. 
And  I  take  care  of  Paolo  when  she  goes  out.  That's 
what  I'm  going  to  do  now.  Want  to  come?  He's 
the  dearest  little  fellow.  (She  leads  the  way  toward 
the  adjoining  apartment,  enters  it  while  John  stands 
at  the  door-way,  watching.  No  longer  visible,  she  is 
crooning  over  the  child)  Pretty  bambino.  (The 
ch'dd  gurgles)  Put  down  your  little  headie.  Why, 
John,  he's  smiling  at  you. 

JOHN 

Is  he?  (And  with  an  idiotic  grimace,  John  swings 
his  watch  frantically  to  and  fro  on  its  cham) 

JANE 

There's  a  draught  on  him.  Come  in  or  stay  out. 
But  shut  the  door. 

\_John,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  joins  Jane  and 
the  infant.  The  stage  is  empty.  But  for  a  moment 
only.  It  is  filled  with  no  physical  presence,  but  by 
a  Voice, —  a  hoarse,  bass  voice,  chanting,  or  rather 
bawling  a  ribald  old  ballad.  It  is  the  classic  ditty 
"  Samuel  Small" 

THE  VOICE 

"  My  name  is  Samuel  Small,  Samuel  Small, 
My  name  is  Samuel  Small, 
And  I  hates  you  one  and  all 
For  a  gang  of  muckers  all  — " 

\The  voice  has  been  approaching.  It  is  very  near; 
and  now  the  door  is  flung  open  with  such  violence  as 
to  make  the  windows  rattle.  Augustin  is  m  the  door 
way.  With  a  roar  he  adds  the  refrain. 


46  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

AUGUSTIN 

— "  Damn  your  eyes."  News.  Glorious  news. 
[One  sees  with  astonishment  that  here  is  a  new  super- 
Angus  tin.  His  cheeks  are  -flushed.  His  eyes  shine 
•with  exaltation.  He  sees  that  they  are  gone;  strid 
ing  back  and  forth  across  the  room  like  a  turkey  gob 
bler,  he  continues  the  song  which  is  reserved  for 
his  great  moments. 

"  And  this  shall  be  my  knell,  parting  knell, 
And  this  — " 

(He  is  arrested  by  the  canvas  which  had  been  the  sub 
ject  of  John's  comments.  Suddenly  it  has  a  new  in 
terest  for  him.>  He  cocks  his  head  at  it,  bends  down, 
looks  at  it  sidewise.  Contemptuously)  A  trifle 
sweet?  Cezanne?  Matisse?  Who  are  they?  (He 
turns  his  back  to  it,  spreads  his  legs  far  apart,  bends 
down  almost  to  the  floor,  and  through  the  window  of 
.  his  legs,  his  head  upside  down  he  surveys  it  again) 
What  color.  What  an  arrangement.  What  dignity 
of  posture.  (He  is  erect  again  and  is  addressing  a 
breathless  audience)  My  dear,  dear  friends,  words 
will  not  phrase  the  depth  of  my  emotion.  This  all 
too  generous  —  this  undeserved  honor  to  the  humble 
American  —  here  in  the  very  home  of  genius  —  (His 
singing  is  resumed,  speech  being  an  insufficient  vehi 
cle  for  his  emotions) 

"  And  this  shall  be  my  knell,  parting  knell, 

And  this  shall  be  my  knell, 

Hope  you  go  right  plumb  to  hell, 

Hope  you  fry  and  sizzle  well, 

Damn  your  eyes." 

[Jane  re-enters  on  tip-toe,  John  at  her  heels. 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  47 

JANE 

Ssh!     Ssh!     Ssh!     Do  be  still.     Paolo's  asleep. 

AUGUSTIN 

Wake  him.  Tell  him  the  glorious  news.  The  gold 
medal  of  honor.  Wake  them  all  —  and  the  prize  of 
a  thousand  — 

JANE 

What?  Isn't  that  splendid,  splendid?  But  please 
do  make  just  a  little  less  noise.  The  gold  medal. 
Why,  Gussie. 

JOHN 

We'll  have  a  parade  in  Kansas  City  when  I  get  back. 

AUGUSTIN 

Cezanne,  hey?  Trifle  sweet?  They  consider  it  the 
most  daring  and  original  canvas  of  a  decade.  A 
decade.  I  only  repeat  what  Mrs.  Carpacci  said. 
This  evening  at  six  Carpacci  gives  a  banquet  to  the 
prize  winners. 

JOHN 

And  are  you  to  make  a  speech? 
AUGUSTIN 

They  expect  it.     I  am  the  guest  of  honor. 
JOHN 

Make  it  short,  Gussie. 
JANE 

What  dress  shall  I  wear,  Augustin? 

[Augustin's  jaw  drops. 
JOHN 

Jane,  Jane,  a  little  more  tact,  please. 
AUGUSTIN 

Rose  of  the  world,  you  see  — 
JANE 

What  am  I  to  see? 


48  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JOHN 

I  must  say  you  are  dense.  Augustin  sees ;  Mrs. 
Carpacci  sees.  I  see.  You  are  not  invited,  Jane. 
This  is  the  symposium  of  genius.  Did  I  ever  take 
you  to  the  Bar  Association  dinners?  You  don't 
seem  to  realize  what  this  means.  Gussie  is  an  inter 
national  figure.  His  photograph  will  be  in  the  Sun 
day  supplements.  (To  Augustin)  You  old  rascal! 
AUGUSTIN 

An  imitator,  hey?  (He  pounds  John  on  the  back 
and  bursts  once  more  into  song) 

"  Oh,  the  parson,  he  did  come,  he  did  come." 

JANE  (enjoining  silence) 
Please,  please! 

AUGUSTIN  (continuing) 

"  Oh,  the  parson,  he  did  come." 

JANE  (irritated) 

You  know  Paolo  is  teething.     Do  be  still. 

AUGUSTIN  (infuriated) 

Paolo,  Paolo,  Paolo,  Paolo!  And  what  of  Augus 
tin? 

JOHN  (patching  it  up) 

You'd  better  be  running  along  to  your  banquet. 
Come  along,  Jane;  we'll  ride  down  the  Grand  Canal 
and  get  a  bit  of  dinner.  My  train  doesn't  leave  until 
nine.  What  do  you  say?  I'll  return  her  safely, 
Gussie  —  in  a  month  or  so. 

[Augustin  gives  a  quick,  questioning  look  toward 
John.  A  sudden,  terrible  change  comes  over  him. 

AUGUSTIN  (with,  slow  and  tragic  emphasis) 

Stop,  listen  to  me.  This  — (he  turns  to  Jane) 
This  is  life's  crucial  moment. 


ACT  n]   THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON      49 

JOHN 

What?     Again?     Horrors! 

AUGUSTIN 
We  stand  — 

JOHN 

Don't  be  frightened,  Gussie.  Pepita  in  Madrid, 
Bridget  in  Londonderry,  dark-eyed  Rachel  in  the 
Orient, —  you  don't  think  I'd  give  up  all  that?  You 
shall  have  her  back  safe,  sound  and  undamaged,  all 
in  the  original  package,  at  eight  forty-five. 

JANE 

I  am  beginning  to  be  a  bit  afraid  of  these  crucial 

moments  myself.     But,  Gussie,  what  about  a  high 

hat? 

[Augiistin  is  overwhelmed. 

JANE 

I  have  it.     Trafford.     You  could  borrow  his.     I'd 
run  right  over  for  it  if  I  were  you. 
[Augiistin  seizes  his  hat   and  rushes   to   the  door. 
Door-knob  in  hand,  he  stops. 

AUGUSTIN 

Rose  of  the  world !     Fairest  of  — 

JOHN 

Never  mind.  We  catch  the  drift.  You  are  a  noble 
fellow.  And,  by  Jove,  you  know  that  picture  in  my 
sitting  room  will  be  worth  enough  now  to  pay  my  en 
tire  trip.  (And  he  slams  the  door  on  Augustiri)  The 
lapse ;  the  relapse.  Sorry,  old  girl,  but  it's  only  too 
plain.  He's  chucked  you. 

JANE 

And  made  a  dashing  exit,  too. 

JOHN 

He  improves. 


50  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JANE 

Gussie's  really  a  dear  boy. 

JOHN  (generously) 

He  is.  He  is.  (Solicitously)  But  look  here,  it 
does  make  rather  a  hash  of  things  for  you. 

JANE 

Does  it?  I've  decided  to  accept  that  stamp,  John. 
Richardson  has  a  standing  offer  of  two  thousand 
pounds  for  the  set,  you  know.  I  shall  climb  the  An 
des.  I  shall  make  friends  with  the  Sphinx.  Blessed 
freedom. 

JOHN 

But  about  dinner.  I  can't  stomach  another  one  of 
those  continental  table  d'hotes. 

JANE 

I  know  such  a  cosy  little  place. 

JOHN 

Get  your  bonnet. 

[She  does  so.  It  has  been  growing  a  little  dark. 
John  pulls  up  the  latticed  blinds,  so  that  she  may 
have  light  enough  to  put  on  her  liat;  and  Venice  in 
the  magic  of  early  dusk  lies  before  them.  Its  vistas, 
the  green  of  the  sky  rising  into  ultra-marine  above, 
melting  into  rose  below,  the  first  star  over  the  cam 
panile  of  San  Giorgio,  look  in  upon  them.  A  gon 
dolier's  song  floats  faintly  up.  They  stand  looking 
out. 

Rather  decent,  isn't  it? 

[Jane's  veil  becomes  tangled.  John  is  quick  to  the 
rescue  with  skilful  fingers,  born  of  long  practice. 
Their  faces  are  very  near  together  as  they  stand  at 
the  window,  black  silhouettes  against  the  deepening 
sky. 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  51 

And  when  do  you  leave  Venice? 

JANE 

Whenever  you  do. 

JOHN 

Whenever  I  do?  You  expect  me  to  take  you  back, 
Madam  ? 

JANE 

Heaven  preserve  me.  I  shall  take  the  train  that  goes 
in  the  opposite  direction.  At  dinner  you  shall  tell 
me  all  the  interesting  places. 

JOHN 

What's  this?  (His  hand  has  dropped  on  a  little 
book  lying  on  the  window  sill.  She  snatches  for  it. 
There  is  a  brief  scuffle.  John  bends  his  eyes  close  to 
it  in  the  gathering  dusk.  There  is  a  thrill  in  his 
voice  despite  himself)  My  sonnets !  Those  miser 
able  sonnets?  Take  the  wretched  things.  (But  it 
appears  she  no  longer  wants  them)  Very  well. 
They  shall  go  where  they  deserve.  (He  lifts  his 
arm,  preparing  to  fling  them  out  of  the  window.  She 
stays  him) 

JANE 

No,  Jack.  They'd  float.  Somebody  might  pick 
them  up  —  and  read  them.  That  would  be  too  dread 
ful.  Give  them  to  me.  (Paolo  cries  softly  m  his 
sleep)  The  little  honey.  Let's  go  out  that  way. 
We'll  tuck  him  in.  Come  along.  (At  the  Vespuccio 
door)  Be  terribly  quiet.  (By  now  it  is  quite  dark. 
John,  following  her,  stumbles  over  a  chair)  Clumsy. 
Do  be  careful. 

JOHN 

But  I  can't  see. 


52  THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON       [ACT  n 

JANE 

Give  me  your  hand,  then.     Where  is  it? 

JOHN 

Can't  you  see  it?     (They  join  hands)     This  cosy 
little  place  of  yours.     Just  what  sort  of  a  place  is  it? 

JANE 

A  jolly,  old,  fat  Englishman  runs  it. 

JOHN 

English  ?     By  Jove !     A  baked  potato,  a  leg  of  mut 
ton. 

JANE 

The  very  thing. 

JOHN 

A  change  from  cabbage.  .  .  .  Mutton.  .  .  .  And 
capers.  Don't  forget  the  capers,  old  lady.  It's  a 
long  time  since  we've  had  capers  together. 
[And  very  cautiously  they  tip-toe  out  together,  shut 
ting  the  Vespuccio  door  silently  behind  them.  In  a 
moment  a  light  sifts  into  the  room  from  the  glass 
transom  above  the  Vespuccio  door.  And  now  Au~ 
gustin  re-enters.  The  tall  hat  is  on  his  head.  It  is 
very  noble,  but  a  trifle  too  large  for  him,  so  tJiat  it  is 
resting  on  his  ears.  He  sees  the  light  over  the  tran 
som.  He  climbs  on  a  chair  and  looks  through  for 
a  moment.  He  climbs  down.  Whatever  it  is  that 
he  has  seen,  he  is  well  satisfied.  The  light  next  door 
goes  out.  The  room,  is  in  darkness.  Augustm 
strikes  a  match  and  lights  a  lamp.  He  takes  a  deep 
breath  or  two  as  a  man  who  has  been  under  water. 
He  stretches  his  arms  out  mightily.  From  below 
Jane  catts  out. 

JANE 

Gondolier !     Gondolier ! 


ACT  n]       THE  RETURN  TO  MUTTON  53 

[Augustin  now  moves  the  pier  glass  to  the  front  of 
the  room,  removes  the  hat,  and  lamp  in  hand,  brushes 
his  hair  with  great  precision  into  a  careful  disorder. 
Satisfied,  he  resumes  the  hat,  first  stuffing  a  bit  of 
newspaper  under  its  band.  Then  he  arrays  himself 
in  a  very  solemn  long  frock  coat,  taking  it  from  a 
hook  on  the  wall.  He  is  almost  ready, —  not  quite. 
He  goes  to  the  sink  and  scrubs  his  hands  sketchily 
with  soap  and  water,  cleans  his  nails  with  a  pocket- 
knife,  polishes  them  with  a  chamois  buffer  and  (shall 
it  be  written  down?)  puts  a  little  carmine  paste  on 
them.  Then  he  shakes  a  drop  of  Cologne  on  his 
handkerchief.  He  makes  a  final  inspection  before 
the  mirror;  he  passes  muster;  he  puts  down  the  lamp. 
He  selects  a  walking  stick  standing  near  the  stove. 
He  sniffs  frowningly  at  the  kettle  of  cabbage.  He 
lays  the  stick  down,  throws  wide  open  one  of  the 
casement  windows,  goes  to  the  stove,  lifts  from  it  the 
kettle,  takes  it  to  the  window,  and  leaning  over,  casts 
it  into  the  canal.  One  hears  the  splash  far  below. 
He  turns  the  lamp  low,  takes  the  stick  once  more, 
tilts  his  hat  awry,  bows  deeply  before  the  self- 
portrait,  and  then,  twirling  his  cane  as  if  it  were  a 
drum,  major's  baton,  he  strides  from  the  room,  sing 
ing  at  top-voice  as  he  goes.  The  words  of  the  song 
are  these: 

"  For  my  name  is  — " 

[He  slams  the  door.  The  stars  look  in  on  a  deserted 
room.  From  below  one  hears  the  ripple  of  the  water 
as  the  gondola  stops,  and  faintly  one  hears  John  and 
Jane  laughing  together. 


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